Bittersweet Revenge
by OneCardTooMany
Summary: The re-written end of Dark Side of the Moon. Dean wants to take revenge on the hunters that killed them, but Sam is against it. Fights ensue and Dean comes to grips with something. Wincest.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

**Hey! So it's been awhile since I posted. I still haven't gotten a new computer, so I've been making due. Anyways, I was re-watching some episodes and I didn't like how Dark Side of the Moon ended. So I decided to write the ending myself. This is the first bit of it. The second chapter should be up when I finish it (so maybe a week?). I'm terribly sorry for any errors. Those are all my mistakes as I don't have a beta. **

**The usual disclaimer of I don't own the characters, and some of the dialogue (some is straight from the episode), but if I did, this wouldn't just be a fantasy. **

**I thought I wouldn't do this but... Please review! They're the life force of writers! Anywho, on with the fun!**

**Bittersweet Revenge**

**Chapter 1**

* * *

Dean woke up when he heard a soft rustling sound. He stayed still and kept his breathing even while his hands slowly searched under the pillow, so as not to cause any movement, looking for the pistol he always kept there. When he couldn't find it, he felt a little bit of panic rise in him.

"Looking for this?" A rough voice asked him.

He opened his eyes and slowly turned towards the voice. He was looking at the muzzle of a shotgun; the wielder was wearing a black ski mask to obscure his identity. He looked to a second man, holding up his handgun before he emptied the clip and dropped it on the floor. The second man was also holding a shotgun, but his was pointed at Sam. They were both dressed in canvas jackets, and underneath, plaid button-up shirts could be seen; hunters most likely. Sam was sitting up, looking like he had been awake longer than Dean had; but then again, waking up to the prospect of getting shot certainly woke oneself up.

"Mornin,'" Dean said, still slightly groggy, to Sam as he turned to look at him. Sam was giving him one of his 'unhappy' looks that generally conveyed the message of, _now isn't the time to joke around Dean_.

"Shut up," one of the men commanded. He was the one that had emptied his gun; seemed like he was in charge. "Hands where I can see them."

Dean rolled over from where he had been sleeping on his stomach, and held his hands up off the bed, up near his face. He continued moving, positioning himself in a sitting position with his legs crossed.

"Wait a minute." Dean looked more closely at the man in front of him, holding the shotgun. "Is that you Roy?" When the man lowered the gun slightly and briefly glanced at his partner, Dean knew he was right. "It is, isn'it. Which makes you Walt. Heya' Walt." Dean said, smiling slightly. It was mainly just to cover how nervous he was, to be honest. He and Sammy clearly had the short end of the stick with this one, and unless he could diffuse the situation, it wasn't looking good for them.

A small part of Dean's brain was relieved, partially since he knew the men, and partially since he was glad he and Sammy were too tired to have sex last night. The situation was bad enough as it was, without adding them being naked and the whole incest thing to the mix. He could imagine how that would have played out: lots of shouting, confusion and disgust on their part, embarrassment on his and Sammy's part, rumors spreading like wildfire. Well that was one bullet they managed to dodge, now they just had to dodge the physical kind. Since Dean knew the men, he was hoping it would be easier to talk them down. He and Sam were great, dedicated hunters; that would play well for their case, whatever that was. Why _were_ they being hunted? Surely some misunderstanding which he would have to clean up.

"Don't matter," came the reply as the two men looked at each other again. Walt pulled off his mask and wore it as a toque; Roy followed suit.

"Well is it just me, or do you two seem a tad upset?" Dean comment in a slightly sarcastic way, trying to take the attention off of the tense atmosphere and why they were here to kill them.

"You think you can flip the switch on the apocalypse Sam... and just walk away?" Walt said, completely ignoring Dean; Walt sounded deadly serious and pissed to top it off. How did Walt know about that? It's not like they went around advertising it. It was probably the damn demons... Crap, well so much for diffusing the situation. Dean struggled to come up with a plan, something that would let him and Sam walk out of that room alive. His mind couldn't come up with anything. Shit, shit, shit. He was the older brother! He was supposed to get them out of situations like this. He had his sawed off shotgun underneath the bed, but he couldn't reach it with Roy watching him like a hawk. Maybe they could talk their way out.

"Who told you that?" Sam asked, staring at Walt; he sounded surprised and the dread could clearly be heard in his voice. Dean knew how much he loathed himself because of the fact that he had, even though unknowingly, started the apocalypse, and he certainly didn't need any other people blaming him. God knows Dean certainly didn't. Fuck, to be honest, Dean had started the ball rolling when he gave in, in Hell. Dean wanted to do anything to stop Sam from hearing these accusations; he wanted to protect him, tell him that it _wasn't_ his fault; he didn't know. He cursed himself and his helplessness; he should be doing something!

"We ain't the only hunters after you," Walt said menacingly as he glared at Sam. He cocked his shotgun and both Dean and Sam sat up straighter. Dean couldn't believe that Walt would do this. They had met each other before; exchanged hunting stories of their best kills. He thought they were on good ground; they knew of each other's reputations, although admittedly, Dean's was more impressive. He could hardly believe the last time they had met up, it had been over a couple beers. He wondered what had changed his mind.

Dean was scrambling for something, anything that would stop them from getting shot. Could he reach his shotgun fast enough? He wouldn't hesitate to kill these hunters if it meant saving Sammy, and a small part of his brain was scared how far he would go for his brother. He would kill two fellow hunters in cold blood for him and his brain brought up that once their relationship had been called, 'dangerously co-dependent.' That might have actually been an accurate assessment. Roy would kill him before he could reach it; the whole time he hadn't taken his eyes off of Dean. But would he kill him? Roy had seemed pretty hesitant throughout the whole thing; it was pretty obvious that Walt was in charge. The sound of Walt's voice snapped him out of his musings.

"See ya' in the next life," Walt said as he raised the shotgun and sighted it to Sam's chest.

"Hear me out!" Sam quickly raised his hands in front of himself, trying to get Walt to stop. "I can explain. Please." He looked pleadingly at Walt, bringing out the puppy dog eyes.

Dean was nearly frantic; Walt was going to _shoot_ his brother! He glanced at Roy, but he was looking at Walt. Roy looked hesitant, so Dean decided to go for it. Just as Dean was diving to the side of his bed to reach under and grab his gun, two deafening bangs went off; Dean realized it was Walt firing his shotgun twice. Dean immediately reversed directions and started launching himself at Sam, but he was too late.

"Stay the hell down!" Roy yelled at him, once again bringing his attention back to his hostage.

Dean paid Roy no attention, his eyes only for Sam; his eyes widened at the sight of Sam, his Sammy, flung back on the bed, his arms sprawled wide, and head flopped to the side, his chest riddled with bullet holes. Blood was slowly seeping out of his wounds and staining his white, plaid shirt. Small circles of the crimson liquid were flecked across his blank face, and it had also splattered all over the bed and even reached the headboard behind him. Dean stared helplessly at his now dead brother, and fought back tears; he would not cry in front of Roy and Walt. He felt like the worst big brother in the world, he was supposed to protect and care for his little brother; his Sammy had been murdered right in front of his eyes and he hadn't done anything. Just a few piss-poor excuses of trying to diffuse the tension with sarcasm. He was the largest failure for a big brother, and he hated himself for it. If he couldn't even save his brother, the person closest to him, just one in seven billion, then how was he supposed to stop the apocalypse?

Dean felt hollow and empty; he had felt this way before, but even then, it was different. This was a more final feel; there seemed to be no returning from this. He felt like he had a large, empty hole in his chest; only being away from Sam felt like this, but this was worse. It was almost as bad as the last time Sam died, except Dean had promised himself that he wouldn't let Sam die again; he failed his promise, and he had failed Sam. A coldness spread through his veins, through his body, numbing his senses. He could have been deaf for all he heard, the image of Sam's mangled chest and emotionless face searing into his mind. He couldn't seem to look away from his little brother's body; no matter how much it pained him, his eyes stayed glued on the sprawled form. He ceased to notice the background, just red, red, red. Blood, blood, blood. They had killed 'Sammy' in Hell multiple times in his torture but this, this was real. The gaping wound inside him, the insistent emptiness assured that it was not a hallucination, not a nightmare. His worst fear had come true, and the darkness of the situation brought back the pain of Hell, the horrors. The pain. The horror. The screams. The terror. The utter evil. He didn't even care if he died; if he lived, his only existence would be to bring Sammy back and to get revenge on these hunters, just so long as he was with Sam. He was just a body, a soul without a purpose; trying to save the apocalypse without really hoping for anything, without his Sammy. For all he cared, the end of the world could come and go; fuck it, let the world burn! He had tried and look where it had gotten him! These hunters, who didn't even understand the situation they were in, didn't even _care_ to understand, had taken everything that Dean had left; had taken the only person he loved, his home, his hope.

Just as the wretched emptiness and hopelessness swept through him, eating at him, consuming him, drowning him, he felt something else start to rise in his stomach. It took a moment to identify the emotion curling in the pit of his being, but when he did, he realized it was rage. It was slowly building, growing into something dangerous, something uncontrollable. It filled him completely until he was almost whole; just a being filled with hate, no other emotions, nothing else. He didn't know how or when, but he would come back and he would kill these hunters slowly, have them begging for death. He would utterly destroy these men, and he would have no mercy on them, just as they had shown none to them. As the boiling rage, settled into his being, Dean was surprised how calm he was; he just didn't care anymore. So what if he was killed? They had already taken everything from him.

"Shoot him," Walt commanded Roy. Dean turned to face his brother's killers and stared at them, his face blank while the rage had settled just under his skin. He could taste a harsh tang in his mouth, which almost seemed testimony to how he was feeling; harsh emotions colliding within him, fighting to get out.

"Killin' Sam was right but Dean-"

"He made us! We just snuffed his brother ya' idiot." Walt cut Roy off, trying to insert command again, after the slight shock of killing Sam when he was trying to explain. "You want to spend the rest of your life knowing Dean Winchester is on your ass? 'Cause I don't." Roy still looked uncertain as he glanced at Walt. "Shoot him."

Dean turned to look at Roy, and stared at him, his face unreadable.

"Go ahead Roy, do it." Dean dared him, his voice even, but his eyes dangerous. "But Imma' warn you, when I come back, I'm going to be pissed." Dean continued in his deadly quiet voice. Roy stared back hesitantly; he still hadn't cocked or sighted his shotgun.

"Come on!" Dean yelled, his voice snapping out and making both the men flinch. What Dean didn't know, was that it wasn't his voice that made them flinch, but his eyes. They were a hard, crystallized green, almost with no life left in them but a certain dark glimmer. A certain darkness that couldn't be learned on earth; it was almost like the hatred of Hell was shining out of Dean's eyes, and they saw his determination, his anger, and Walt knew, if he didn't kill Dean, these eyes would personally see to his death. "Let's get this show on the road!" Dean dared them; even his voice had a deadly undercurrent in it. He didn't even care at this point; no amount of damage to his body would stop him. He would get his revenge, be it in this life or the next; whether he would be brought back physically was still iffy. Roy didn't make any move to shoot Dean, and he could see the fear in his eyes, even though he was the one holding the gun; a small glimmer of satisfaction pierced Dean, short and fleeting, because he had caused that fear. They would both feel more than that when he came for them.

"Come on already," Walt said, getting slightly impatient, though Dean could detect unease in his voice. He took a deep breath, though he tried to disguise it, before he cocked his shotgun and aimed. The sound was nearly deafening in the small room, and Dean felt immense pain claw into his chest. He almost welcomed it; pain to take away the emptiness, pain to fuel the anger.

* * *

"You go home again, but I'm afraid, this time won't be like the last. This time, God wants you to remember," Joshua concluded. He looked sad, but Dean was too pissed off to care about his _feelings_; whether they were genuine or not. Just another disappointment in the long run; this is why Dean tried not to believe in anything, he usually ended up being horribly let down. After all, if angels were such dicks, why would God be any different? Just a dead-beat dad, and it pissed Dean off. The bastard could fix _everything_ if he so wanted, but no. It wasn't _his problem_. He would just let his creations struggle by themselves, to try and save the freakin' world! Dean wanted to kill something, anything, right now. He would probably kill Joshua if he had an angel blade in his hands; the _sorry_ bastard who was rooting for them and hoping they would pull it off. _His condolences he can't do anything more._ Dean clenched his jaw, trying to keep his rage and disappointment inside, but of course the dick Joshua had to go spilling his feelings for everyone to hear, so there wasn't much point in hiding them, if Sam already knew his failing faith in themselves. Dean glared into Joshua's stupidly calm eyes, almost visibly seething, as the angel stretched his arm out towards them.

A light started glowing from his palm, gradually encompassing his whole hand before it became too blinding to look at. Dean squinted and turned his head away, but still the light seemed to seep in, causing piercing pain to his eyes. The light slowly engulfed their whole garden surroundings, and the pain in Dean's eyes lanced through his whole body. He wanted to scream from the pain filling his entire being, but he couldn't seem to open his mouth. He wanted to run from the light because it was still persisting, and it seemed to be causing this pain, but he couldn't find his body; he couldn't feel any of his limbs; he felt like he was just floating. The pain went on and on, it could have been minutes or seconds, days or weeks, Dean couldn't tell. When the light started to fade slowly, so did the pain. Then, all of a sudden with no warning, he was crashing into his body. The pain was gone in an instant, only a distant echo of pain from being shot remained, and the only thing he felt was a sudden heaviness and weariness, which he supposed was the weight of wearing a body around his soul. The only light was the natural light filtering in from the windows, which spun as he sat up quickly, gasping for air.

He could hear Sam panting on the bed next to his, and he couldn't help but bring his hand up to his chest. His fingers met warm, sticky liquid, which had soaked through his now-torn shirt. He glanced down at his torso and was confronted with a crimson mess glaring back at him. He slid his hand underneath his ripped shirt and felt at the flesh beneath it. Dean half expected to feel holes torn in his skin and fresh blood oozing out of the wounds, but it was whole and smooth, without any scars to prove that he'd been shot twice with a shotgun.

"You alright?" Came Sam's voice from off to his right; he must have been thinking of everything that frickin' Joshua spilled. Sam was worrying about him when he should be worrying about himself, being Lucifer's vessel and all. That's precisely why Dean kept his doubts and thoughts to himself; Sam didn't need the weight of his problems on his already over-flowing plate.

"Define alright," Dean answered, deciding to go with something closer to the truth than he originally planned.

To be honest, Dean wasn't alright; not even close. He felt like his last hope had dashed itself to pieces on the ground in front of him, making sure that the shrapnel would hurt all around it. His last fuckin' hope. Was it too much to ask that for _once_ something go their way? Too much to ask that God would help them, since his holy creations didn't seem to want to? You'd think God would be concerned about his creations dying and killing each other. So where did that leave them? Just two men and an angel standing between the angels and demons and the apocalypse; what chance did they stand? Less than one percent? Why did they even bother trying so hard? Their world was already being torn to shreds by supernatural monsters having their way, and there never would be enough hunters to fix it; why not just let the apocalypse happen? Dean highly doubted that they would be able to stop it; why not at least enjoy the last few weeks they had?

Dean stood up, swaying slightly before he walked over to his duffle bag. He needed a shower, and then some booze. Lots of it. "Where are you going?" Sam called after him, worry clearly colouring his tone.

"Shower," Dean grunted as he picked up clean clothes and shut the door after him. As he pulled his shirt over his head, he winced at the warm sticky feeling. He dropped the shredded shirt straight into the small garbage can and started with his jeans, knowing they would have to be thrown out as well, because of the copious blood stains on them. He shed his boxers and stood naked in the small room, staring transfixed at the bloody mess on his chest. The bright liquid was slowly starting to drip down his torso and hips. He looked like something from a horror thriller flick. He didn't let his eyes stray any higher than his shoulders, knowing that he wouldn't like what he found in his face. Fuck, when had it gotten so cold in here? He shivered and forced himself to move. He knew he should be hurrying; _they_ should be hurrying because it was impossible not to have heard the multiple gunshots, but he couldn't bring himself to care. He felt so fucking empty; the world was going to end anyways. Fuck the police. What worse could they do that already hadn't happened to them? He stepped into the shower and started it, not even bothering to wait for it to warm up. He numbly started washing the blood off his body watching as the water went from clear to pink, to a deep crimson. He ran his fingers through his hair rinsing out sweat and blood. Dean seemed to be in slow motion, and he couldn't change it: his hands moved lazily and slowly, his thoughts spiraled in the same hopeless, self-depreciating loop.

A banging on the door startled him out of his thoughts. "Dean! What are you doing? The cops are going to be here any second!"

Dean didn't reply, but he did shut off the water. He toweled off and survived three more bangs on the door from Sam. He tugged on his clothes, focusing on the mundane activities and carefully avoiding the mirror, trying not to let his mind wander. He needed something to drink really soon. When he opened the bathroom door Sam pushed by him and nearly knocked him over. Sam gave him one of the_ what the hell are you doing? _kind of looks before he slammed the door. The shower was on and running in less than a minute. He walked over to his green bag and started packing, collecting everything from various spots around the small room: the gun and the clip on the floor by the foot of the bed, dirty clothes strewn by his bed, the shotgun under the bed, the holy water on the nightstand. When he had all of his stuff on the floor by the bag, he started stuffing things in, hell, he might have even grabbed a few things of Sam's. He forced the zipped shut and loaded his pistol and tucked it in the waist band of his pants.

What the hell were he and Sam doing with their lives? Times like this made him wonder. Their motel room was practically an armory with all the weapons they ported with them. He thought he had seen it all before, but no. He had been killed, again, and been brought back to life _again._ He couldn't but help and wonder at the amazement of it all. He and Sammy were like cats, they had nine lives. How long could this go on? They couldn't keep dying and being brought back. One of these times, their luck would run out and that would be it for sure, snuffed out by something supernatural. What made them so much more durable than other human beings? Sure they were trained and raised in it, but if everyone was, wouldn't they be just as fit for the job? Why were they the ones that the weight of the world should rest? Why them?

He stood in the middle of the room, staring blankly at the door to their motel room. He didn't have a plan. Dean freakin' Winchester was useless. He was out of ideas. He was completely and utterly hopeless. He couldn't even mask it for the sake of Sammy. His little brother, who he was supposed to protect, but couldn't. He was a failure. He let his brother get killed. He couldn't even help think of a new plan for the apocalypse. Failed. Useless. His father would be disappointed; his father was _always_ disappointed him. He was out, done, down. He was an empty husk, all faith and hope drained. How the hell did he think he, Dean Winchester, alcoholic, closed off mess with abandonment and father issues, was going to save the world? Where had he even found that hope? He was simply bullshitting himself. This mess couldn't be fixed. It was too big, way too over their heads. Above all, he was tired. Tired of being the one who took control. Tired of being the one with all the responsibility. Tired of hunting monsters and risking their lives. They were missing out on so much of life, because of their stupid, under-appreciated job. And the world was going to end anyways. What did it matter; just another lost cause?

He hated himself, he really did. He was a mindless soldier, stupidly optimistic and fucking useless. Some days he wished that he could be someone else, anyone else. Some days, though he never told Sam that, he wished it would end. The pain, the loathing, the masks, the hopelessness of it, the never-ending work. His dedication to Sam kept him going though; he could never leave Sam by himself. Honestly, he had so many character flaws it was a wonder that Sam loved him at all. Sam insisted Dean was a great person, but he didn't see it. Didn't see the huge gaping hole in Dean's soul. Didn't taste the bitterness, and hate on his tongue. And disappointment. Always disappointment. It always came in the voice of his father. That wasn't good enough. Sam almost got killed. He should have known about that strange monster quirk. His aim had been a little off-who cares if he was injured?- he was supposed to be the big brother, the good example. Dean! Haul ass! Do this, do that! Make sure Sammy is safe. Watch out for Sam. Research this monster. Help me with this hunt. Work on your aim, your Latin. Better, better, better! Disappointment. It plagued him, but it also spurred him on in a strange way, to strive to be better. That wasn't the case this time though. It washed over him bitterly, completely enveloping him in its cold embrace, and it sounded like his father's voice echoing in his head, forever disappointed. Forever failed.

And bitterness. It was deep rooted in him. Who knows how long it was planted, slowly growing in him until it was big enough to notice, impossible to ignore. Bitterness at the world, for failing him, for existing, for being such a crappy place. Bitterness at his father, who never said he loved him, never acknowledged him, never praised him, when that was the only thing he wanted the most. His entire childhood had been skipped, fast forwarded and jammed into his first six years, after that he was an adult. Look after Sammy. The only program he knew how to follow. He was bitter at God, at the angels. They wanted this. They wouldn't stop it. How heartless could you be? Especially God. His rejection had been a slap in the face. _Not his problem? _The whole fucking universe was his problem!

His thoughts circled around, and he remembered his duty; he should probably call Cas. He deserved to be told in person, as soon as possible. He walked over the table by the door and grabbed his phone. He flipped it open and clicked contacts. Cas was the first contact in the list. He pressed his name and was about to hit the call button when the bathroom door opened.

"What are you doing?" Sam asked, still toweling his hair off.

"Calling Cas," Dean answered, hitting the call button.

"Why now? Dean the cops are going to be here any minute!" Sam protested.

"Sam!" Dean held the phone up the his ear, "Cas is just as much part of this as we are. Don't you think he deserves to know right away, from us?"

Sam opened his mouth, looking like he wanted to protest, but he shut his mouth and sighed, instead going to pack his stuff. Cas answered on the second ring with a gruff, 'hello?'

"Cas. Sam and I are at the Red Rock Motel in Tonopah, Nevada." Scarcely had Dean finished talking before the sound of flapping wings could be heard. He snapped his phone shut and slipped it in his pocket before turning around and facing Castiel. He was standing in his usual attire of trench coat covered suit. He had finally learned about personal space; only in the odd times of excitement and tense times did he forget and land too close. He was quiet, evidently patient and waiting for Dean to tell him the reason he was called. Dean was dreading having to do this. His stomach churned and he sighed before speaking, "Cas..."

"Cas, we talked to Joshua." Dean hesitated, seeing the intense way Cas was looking at him, "And uh, he said God... God won't help. He said it wasn't his problem." Dean let it out in a rush, hating himself for having to be the bearer of bad news. Hating the way Cas' face seemed to crumple at the news, the way his eyes dimmed. If for anything else, Dean wished God would help them for Castiel. Couldn't he see how good Cas was? How pure-hearted and faithful he was? Why -how- could he do this to him, an angel? In that moment, Dean hated and resented God more than anything. How could he leave his creations to burn? How could he let down and hurt his angels like this? If there was anyway to destroy or kill God, Dean would not have hesitated to do so. He clenched his hands; he wanted to kill something. To rip, destroy, hear something scream. Walt and Roy would pay. He would kill them with his own hands. Hear them scream, _make_ them scream, feel their blood. Unable to hold Cas' disappointed and pained stare any longer, Dean glanced down and shuffled past him, to fiddle with his duffle bag.

"Maybe... Maybe Joshua was lying."

Pain lanced through Dean at Castiel's broken voice; he didn't sound very hopeful at all. He wished he could do something to help, but he was broken too, couldn't they see that? He couldn't fix anything. Anger once again lapped at his core, and he welcomed it. It was better than the pain and emptiness that filled him, and it could lend him strength. He vowed he would avenge Cas somehow. He might not even know he was being avenged, but Dean would do it anyways. He would kill Walt and Roy. That was as good as it was going to get.

"I don't think he was Cas. I'm sorry." Sam spoke softly, probably in just as much pain as Dean was at seeing Cas like this. Dean clenched the handles on his bag a little tighter and grit his teeth, shifting his weight. It was good Sam was talking; Dean didn't think he could manage that right now. He heard footsteps and looked up; Cas had walked over towards the door with his back turned to them.

"You son of a bitch. I believed... in..."

It almost broke his heart to hear Cas, naive and faithful Cas, renouncing his faith. Something snapped in the world, Dean was sure of it. They day when angels lose faith and demons help people was the day the world would end. Which he thought bitterly, was going to happen quite soon. Dean clenched his eyes shut, trying to push out his emotions. Right now he'd rather feel nothing at all than all this turmoil of anger and sadness. It was definitely because he was so angry that his eyes began to prickle and nothing at all to do with losing his last hope or anything. And it for sure wasn't because Cas was hurting so much. Successfully holding back his tears, Dean turned back to Cas just as he turned around.

"I don't need this anymore." Cas said in a dead voice, reaching into his pocket and pulling out Dean's amulet. He tossed it to him and Dean caught it clasped in both hands. "It's worthless."

Although Dean knew it was worthless, the words hurt regardless. He fisted the amulet, allowing -welcoming- the pain of the sharp horns jabbing into his palm. He stared down at his hands, pain freezing out any other emotion he was feeling. This, this was the worst. The world would end and there was nothing he was going to be able to do about it.

"Cas, wait." Sam called, but the fluttering of wings filled the room almost before he stopped speaking. Dean figured he had a pretty good idea what was going on with Cas; he would want to be alone too if he found out his father didn't care. Though he wanted to comfort his friend, he really did, he was in no state to. If he wasn't in a good mental place, then he wouldn't be able to help Cas find a better one either. Once again a failure.

"We'll find another way. We can stop all this Dean." Sam patted Dean on the shoulder, hope still evident in his voice. How did Sammy keep faith after all that had happened?

"How?" Dean wasn't so much asking but deadpanning. This had been one of their last resorts, and they both knew it. They didn't have any other plans, no aces up their sleeves. They were trying to stand up to the devil himself and the power of Heaven. They were just powerless humans compared to them. They didn't even stand a chance; they were practically insects to these powerful beings.

"I don't know, but we'll find it. You and me. We'll find it."

Normally, the 'you and me' would cheer Dean up, if only slightly, because it was nice to know his brother wasn't going to leave him again. Dean half expected him to. Sam deserved more than he got, and it pained Dean every day to know that he wasn't good enough, would never be good enough for his brother. Sammy was too good. Dean would never deserve him, and yet he could never make Sam understand that. Sam always insisted that Dean was the brave one, the courageousness one. Dean didn't believe him. He was useless. A whore at best, only good at pleasing women and following orders. He couldn't even fit a mask on, to hide what he was feeling. He didn't believe Sam when he said they could do it. There was just no end in sight, other than the world ending with the prize fight that Dean could see. He wished he could pretend for Sam's benefit, but he was too torn up, too shattered to be able to. In a couple of days maybe, but right now? Sam would get the bare truth, the true Dean. Dean the failure. Dean the hopeless. Dean the lost. Dean the weak.

He tossed the necklace up a bit; he wouldn't be able to keep this. It symbolized failure and pain. It would only serve as a terrible reminder, so he had to get rid of it. He hoisted his bag up, walking past Sam to the grungy door. He paused at it; was he really sure? Sam had given it to him as a gift. He had to though, it would only bring up painful memories if he kept it. He dropped it in the garbage and opened the door, striding out, leaving behind the blood stained beds, his pained brother, the torturous amulet.

* * *

**Don't worry! The second chapter is when the 'M' of the rating comes in. It's not all angst by the way... Hopefully the following chapter will be less... self hating and suchness.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note:**

**So yeah, this took longer than I thought to write. I hope you like it, but the Wincesty goodness got pushed off another chapter, because I forgot how much ****_stuff_**** I needed to jam into this chapter. SO yeah, I am sorry about that. It will be for sure in the next chapter. **

**The usual disclaimer: I do not own them as much as I wish I could. I don't think I have enough money to buy them...**

**But anyways, reviews would be much appreciated. So I was thinking, does my writing have too much detail? I pretty much write about ****_every fucking thing_**** they do between ****_here_**** and ****_there_****, so should I try and cut that down? Tell me what you think.**

**Bittersweet Revenge**

**Chapter 2**

* * *

Days went by. Dean was getting drunk almost every night. Sam didn't know what to do, so he researched. The brothers barely talked. Everything was plagued by silence. Dean was followed by pain and shame, unknown to Sam. Their hotel room got so cluttered with whiskey and beer bottles that it actually smelled like alcohol inside. Dean went to bars every night, wishing he could lose himself with a stranger, but knowing he couldn't because of his little brother sitting alone in their motel room. Sometimes Sam would get out a certain necklace he saved and would hold it in his hands, sometimes clenching it, sometimes stroking it. Some days Dean would make them move without reason. Hit the road running and not look back, speeding down the road all day. Sam had to remind him to pull over to eat. Sam was worried about his brother. Dean was worried about Sam when he was sober enough to remember.

After about a week of this routine, Dean snapped out of it. Something sparked his anger enough to remember his vow, and suddenly he threw himself into finding Walt and Roy. He called around to select fellow hunters, who he knew he could trust, and he searched for them in newspapers and online. He tried tracking their paper trail from their last hotel. He stayed up all hours tracking them, finding them. They moved constantly, always one step behind, one town behind. It was almost impossible to tell where they'd head next. Sam was still worried about Dean, because he was so intently focused on find the men, but he figured it was a step forward from getting drunk every night. He was a man on a mission, and he was scary, even to his brother. Dean had made a promise to himself and he wasn't going to break it, even at all costs.

When he finally got a call from one of the hunters he contacted, Dean was scarily gleeful. They packed up right away and drove. Sam slept in the car and when he awoke they were still driving. Dean was gripping the steering wheel tight, staring determinedly ahead. Dean ignored Sam's suggestion to switch and drove the whole day, until they arrived at the town, late in the evening. They drove through, scouting the place out before they settled into their motel. Sam was thankful that Dean decided to sleep that evening. The plan was on.

* * *

Dean woke up slowly, enjoying the moment before everything completely settled in, before his carefully honed rage and pain came back. He heard the click of laptop keys, and sure enough, Sam was sitting at the little table in their motel room, concentrating on the screen. Sam seemed to have long ago resigned himself to the fact that they were going to find Walt and Roy, and now it appeared that he was helping. Dean must have rustled the bed covers because Sam started talking without even glancing in his direction.

"There's a case here. That's why Walt and Roy are here. Three missing persons files along with two dead bodies."

Dean sat up and rubbed his eyes, feeling so much better after a long sleep. "Give me a minute, and we'll head out."

Dean shifted off the bed and padded across the room to his bag. He grabbed fresh clothes and headed to the bathroom. The bathroom door was shut before Sam could reply. Dean had the quickest shower in a long time, still avoiding his reflection. Nasty things tended to show up in mirrors. He dressed quickly, brushing his teeth before he left the fogged up room. To be honest, he was excited. This was the closest to being happy he'd been in a long while. Finally he was going to get what he wanted. His blood boiled in anticipation. He was fucked up he knew; how messed up was it that he was looking forward to torturing and killing two hunters? It was just another example of how much of a failure he was. The Righteous Man his ass. He tossed his clothes in the vague direction of his bed before he walked over to Sam to peer over his shoulder.

"So they're calling the deaths wild animal attacks, but I don't think they are." Sam commented, opening a report page.

"Why? Missing hearts?" Dean questioned.

"No. It's not a werewolf; it's not a full moon and they still have their hearts. In the police reports, it says their chests were torn open, almost as if gored multiple times. The two dead people were very active and went hiking in the woods often. So far they seem quite normal. One of them was married, kids, the whole nine. The other was a successful business man."

"So what then? A wendigo?

"No, I don't think so. A wendigo wouldn't have left scraps, plus the victims didn't have bite marks. I looked through Dad's journal, but I couldn't find anything that matches. I called Bobby while you were still sleeping-" Dean looked at the alarm clock in surprise. It was already almost twelve? Holy crap! No wonder he felt so rested. "-and he's still looking up what it might be. Should we clean up this job while in town?"

"Not too fast. We still have to get Walt and Roy," Dean said thoughtfully. After he dealt with the hunters, they could pick up where they left off in the case. "Let's go get some lunch and then scout the place out. We need to know where they're staying. Then we can start formulating a plan."

Sam looked slightly uncomfortable at the notion, but he shut the laptop and nodded anyways.

"Great. Let's go. I'm starving." Dean said as he grabbed his handgun, tucking it in the back of his jeans before he grabbed his jacket and wallet. Sam followed Dean out the door of their motel and into the Impala. They drove through town multiple times, looping around and looking for any sign of Walt and Roy. Dean triple checked the diner they were about to enter, not wanting to spoil their element of surprise when the time came. When he was satisfied that they weren't in there eating, nor walking the street, he got out and entered the diner; Sam followed rolling his eyes. Dean didn't pay the hostess any attention, even as she openly checked him out and smiled flirtatiously at him. He was too busy formulating a plan. If they could find out what motel they were at, they could ambush them. He would have to knock them out and then take them to a different location to kill them. Somewhere where no one would hear their screams. Did this town have an abandoned house? That would be perfect. Dean sat down absently on the seat they were shown to, not even listening to the hostess talk about the specials of the day.

He opened the menu and looked through the burger section. He quickly settled on the bacon cheeseburger before he glanced at the tiny section devoted to dessert. Dean had never been a fan of cake. He had never really eaten it growing up. While they were on the road with their dad, he would usually order what his father had for dessert: pie. Even after he had realized how much he was trying to be like his father and decided to explore his own character, he still couldn't drop the habit of ordering pie at restaurants. He skipped over the fudge brownie and the chocolate cake and focused on the selection of pies. He set his menu down shortly after he settled on lemon cream pie. He normally had apple pie, but he figured that this was a good time to try something new; he had his quarry within his grasp.

Sam was still looking at his menu when Dean put his flat on the table, so he glanced around the diner. They were seated at a booth near the window. That was both good and bad; they could see Walt and Roy if they decided to stroll by, but they could also be seen. The booth seats were covered in a turquoise vinyl material while the tables were a plain dark wood. The counter that ran along further into the restaurant had tall, plain chairs at it, as did the various tables in the open spaces. The floor was a black and white checkered linoleum and the walls had different pictures of old cars and towns in various shades of black and white and sepia. When Dean turned back to Sam, he found him staring at him, his menu on the table, overlapping with Dean's. Sam's look was quite intense and he had a mild version of his bitchface on. He opened his mouth to say something, but their waitress walked up and interrupted him with a cheery chirp of, "What can I get you boys?"

Sam sighed quietly and selected his salad. How typical. Dean ordered his cheeseburger and pie, along with his first cup of coffee. Their waitress, a pretty girl with long dark hair, smiled at him as she jotted their orders down in a mini notebook, before flipping it shut and tucking it in her apron. She twirled off, and may have swayed her hips, but Dean wasn't watching; he was back to looking at his brother. Sam was staring at him, his hazel eyes intense, and a small crease between his eyebrows.

"So what are you going to do now that we've found Walt and Roy?" Sam finally asked, after a few minutes of talking with his eyes.

"Kill them," Dean said simply, though quietly so no one nearby overheard. No point in trying to lie about this. Sam's eyebrows shot up in surprise and his eyes widened.

"Kill them?!" His mouth curved into a frown as he leaned forward, bangs falling more into his face. "Dean! You can't!"

"Why not?" Dean demanded, also leaning in to insure that their conversation was private. "They've killed us! I'm just returning the favor!"

"Even so! It's, it's wrong!" Sam protested. "They're hunters!"

"I can't just let them walk away after what they did to you! To us!" Dean hissed loudly, his green eyes blazing. Sam opened his mouth to hiss back, but their waitress, clad in a teal and black uniform bounced up holding a tray with their coffee on it.

"Here you go." She said, clearly unaware of the tense aura around the brothers. Sam gave her a tight smile and Dean just nodded. Undeterred she said happily, "Your food'll be out in a few minutes" before she walked away to attend to other customers. As soon as she was out of earshot, the brothers leaned in again and started furiously whispering.

"Dean, you can't kill them!" Sam hissed, leaning back in.

"Watch me!" Dean replied venomously, also leaning in.

"There's already a deficiency in hunters around the world. Dean, you'd be wiping two capable hunters off the map!" Sam said, trying to convince Dean otherwise.

"Well, we can do without those bastards breathing air and taking up space!" Dean whispered, "Don't you even care what they did?"

"Yeah I care! I just don't think it's enough to cost them their lives. Don't they deserve a second chance? How many times have we had second chances? How many times have we been forgiven and received another chance?" Sam asked, his tone going from demanding to soft and quiet. His hazel eyes bored into Dean's, and he tilted his head slightly, bringing out the full puppy dog eyes. Their waitress interrupted yet again, setting their plates of food before them before sashaying off.

"Sam, no." Dean said with an air of finality. He glared across the table and took a big bite out of his cheeseburger so he didn't have to talk to Sam. Sam leaned back and sulked, stabbing at his salad with more force than was strictly necessary. To be honest, Sam did have many valid points. Dean just had too much pride to back down. He couldn't not kill them! His protective side was kicking in; he couldn't let people who had hurt -killed!- Sammy walk free. Dean finished off the rest of his meal, hating and trying to ignore the little seed of doubt that Sam had planted. No doubt he would bring the issue up again; Sam was nearly as stubborn as Dean.

Their waitress was just clearing off their dishes and setting down Dean's pie when Sam's phone rang.

"Hello? Oh, hi Bobby. Oh? Mhmmm... Okay... Okay... Alright... Yeah I'll get back to you... What were those three called again?" Sam glanced up to where Dean was watching, his pie only had one bite out of it, and mimed writing in the air. Dean fished out a pen from an inside pocket in his jacket before he handed it Sam along with a clean napkin.

"Okay, wait. Slow down. Okay. How do you spell that? Okay... got it. Thanks Bobby!" Sam snapped his phone shut and slid the napkin over to Dean, who had resumed eating.

"So Bobby said he could only come up with three possibilities for the case. Not many supernatural creatures in this area have horns or anything like the sort. Lots of creatures and gods were crossed off because of the time of the year, the moon cycle and other conditions. So the only three he could come up that might remotely fit the bill are Cernunnos, a Celtic god; a sin-you, a Japanese unicorn; and a behemoth."

Dean looked at the crooked hand writing on the napkin while he thought. They all seemed far-fetched They were talking about myths from other countries! Across oceans! This was unusual.

"So shall we go talk with the victim's family?" Sam suggested, and Dean could detect a hint of hope in his voice.

"No. We can start this case once we get Walt and Roy." Dean said in a firm voice. Sam huffed and glared at him as if to say _Really? _Dean glared back and mentally dared him to comment. Dean ate the last bite of lemon cream pie. He leaned back for a moment before digging out his battered wallet and dropping a few twenties on the table; it should cover the price and leave a suitable tip. As they were leaving the diner, Dean paused at the 'please wait to be seated' sign and said, "Excuse me, miss" to the hostess waiting there. The girl whirled around and put on her most winning smile as she saw Dean.

"Yes? How may I help you?" She said cheerfully.

"I was wondering if you know of any abandoned houses in this town. It's a hobby of mine to drive by and look at them," Dean lied, smiling at her the entire time. He could feel Sam glaring at him from by the door, obviously disapproving.

"Oh." She said, pouting a little as she thought about such an odd request. "I think there's two... One on," she closed her eyes as if to help her think better, "Sunshine Avenue!" She opened her eyes and sounded triumphant. "At the end of the street," She added as an afterthought, "And the second one is a little out of town. It's a farmhouse out on Millar's Drive."

"Thank you so much," Dean looked at her name tag, "Emily."

Dean smiled one last time before he turned and left, the bell above the door tinkling as he opened it. As soon as both doors of the Impala were shut, Dean started the car and backed out of the parking lot, ignoring how Sam was glaring out the window and presenting his back to him. So Millar's Drive it was. An empty farmhouse sounded promising. As he aimlessly drove around, looking for the road, he cursed not remembering to ask directions to the house. He knew he could ask Sam to look in the map book, but with the bitch fit he was having, Dean wasn't sure Sam would comply. It was pure luck that he found the road, and he felt like cheering when he did. He drove down the road, and gradually it led out of town. The houses became more interspersed and soon they had fields. Dean glanced at the farm houses carefully, trying to tell if they were abandoned or not. He needn't have worried; when he saw the next farm house, he knew it was the one the hostess was talking about. It was set a ways off the main road, with big trees and bushes growing up around the house. The house had a few broken windows and others were boarded up. The house was grungy and dark; the paint was chipping in many places and ivy was crawling up one side. The fields were slowly growing in and the driveway was dirt with many potholes. Dean carefully turned into the driveway and drove up the house before parking it.

Dean stepped out and walked towards the front porch; he could hear the answering slam of a car door and knew Sam was following him. He climbed the creaking steps apprehensively hoping they wouldn't break from underneath him. On the porch were two neglected chairs, one missing a leg. He turned the old, rusty door knob and wasn't too surprised when the door wouldn't open. A shoulder check got the job done though, and he entered the shabby building. It was dark inside, so he paused to let his eyes adjust before he walked down the hall. It was filled with grit and dirt inside, along with animals droppings. Some of the wall had graffiti on them, random scrawls of, _fuck you! _and _John loves Amber, _alongside other symbols. Dean wandered through the other rooms: a dining room, the kitchen, a living room. Each one was in a state of disrepair; cobwebs everywhere, dust settling thickly on the dilapidated furniture that was left, shards of glass in some places. Dean also checked upstairs a little hesitantly and found bedrooms. Most were empty, but one had a bed in it and a perfectly fine chair. He carried it downstairs; it would be perfect for what he was thinking of. He set it in the middle of the living room, facing the large boarded up windows with the gaping fireplace and mantle to the left. Dean tested the other chairs in the house while Sam skulked around. Dean decided that the chair on the porch was the sturdiest, so he took it in, setting it next to the first chair. Satisfied, he called for Sam to say that they were leaving. Sam materialized in the doorway, still glowering, but following him out nonetheless.

The drive back to town was a silent affair, only broken when Dean turned on the radio and found an old rock station. Dean was planning to cruise around town and loiter until he found the hunters he was looking for, but when Sam asked to be dropped off at the motel to start researching the creatures Bobby gave them in a clipped tone, Dean complied, figuring he could do better without the distraction of Sam glaring at him at random intervals. Sam slammed the door on his way out, growling, "talk to me before you do anything stupid," and stalking to their room, unlocking it before he disappeared into it without looking back. Dean hated it when Sam was mad. Truly. But he couldn't do anything about this one, since it was a matter of someone hurting him. No one hurt his Sammy and got away with it. They would get past this eventually; they had been through so much worse. Dean needed to do this. He had to know that he _could_ look after Sammy, that he could protect him. This was his way of proving to himself that he could. At the back of Dean's mind, he knew he was putting off thinking about the apocalypse by distracting himself by taking out revenge, but he didn't know what else to do. They didn't have any leads and they hadn't seen Cas since that night, even though they prayed every night. The hopeless and broken hole still existed inside Dean, but he pretended it wasn't there. After a couple of months it would probably go away anyways, or get buried by other things soon enough. Right now, his simmering rage was enough to cover it, or at least make sure that Dean could easily ignore it.

Dean drove through town slowly, even going so far as to go the speed limit, which in his opinion, was far too slow. No one even obeyed it anyways. He looped around the main strip a couple of times before parking in sight of the majority of the diners. It was going to be dinner time soon, so hopefully Walt and Roy went out for dinner and didn't order in. The time passed slowly and Dean drove around some more, paranoid that he would miss them. He looked in all the diner windows as he drove by, trying to see if they were in there. He settled down for a long wait as he alternated cruising around and parking. Luckily, his anger lent him patience. He would do everything he could to nail these hunters, even if it meant waiting for hours, and by now, it _had_ been hours. He felt like the predator, patiently waiting for his prey to wander by; hunters had huge amounts of patience in waiting. He could do this.

The only downside to waiting was, it left time for his mind to wander. He thought of everything he should have done better. Planned of how he might have saved Sam. He thought of how this little fight of theirs might be resolved. After the hunters were dead, would Sam be mad long? How could he make him see his side of the story, his reasoning? He ultimately knew that they _would _end up talking about this, and it would probably turn into something girly knowing Sam. He tried to steer his mind away from it, but he kept thinking about the apocalypse. It was like poking at a missing tooth with his tongue; he couldn't help it, even if it hurt. His thoughts ran in never ending loops: how it would end, if there was a solution, a way of saving the world. And through it all, he still felt hopeless.

He was happily dragged out of his thoughts when he spotted Walt in a car driving by. It was pure luck that he looked up and spotted his prey and Dean was glad that he had. He felt a thrill of excitement shoot through his body as he started his car. He slid out of his parking space and drifted in behind Walt's car. When they pulled into the Red Rock Diner parking lot, Dean kept going and instead turned into the small parking lot around back. He circled and idled a moment before driving to the main parking lot. He chose a spot where he could see the front door from and backed into the spot. He glanced at the time before he shut the car off. It was 7:09; a late dinner it was. He searched the restaurant as best as he could from sitting in his car. It was also lucky that the hostess sat them at a booth by the window. Dean smiled and couldn't help but feel like the universe was on his side. He watched them smile at the hostess before picking up their menus. He debated texting Sam, since he demanded to know before he did anything, but he _wasn't _going to do anything tonight. Just see where they're staying. In the end, Dean did text Sam saying that he had found and followed Walt and Roy. Sam phoned him back right away.

"Don't you dare go after them." Sam demanded.

"Well hello to you to." Dean muttered, "Relax, I'm not going to do anything tonight. I'll just follow them to their hotel."

Sam only huffed, before saying, "If you do something without me, I'll kill you."

Dean started to retort, but the line went dead as Sam hung up. Dean glared at his phone before he snapped it shut. He leaned back and settled in to wait.

* * *

The forty-five minute wait was long, but it still wasn't enough to get rid of his good mood. By the time they exited the restaurant, it was dark. They strolled to their car and Dean hunched down in his seat as they passed close by. They finally started their car and cruised by the Impala, which Dean took as a sign to start his car. He pulled out smoothly and followed their left hand turn out of the parking lot. He kept a fair amount of distance between the cars so as not to arouse suspicion. They wound through the town and a couple times, cars tried to pull in between the two cars, but Dean sped up, and the sight of two headlights baring down on them usually stopped them. He had to run an orange light just to keep up with their car, but that was fine in Dean's books. There were no cops around and it wasn't a red light... yet. Finally, near the edge of town, the car turned into the seedy looking motel called 'The Blue Star.' Dean slowed down fractionally just to make sure they were actually staying there, before he pulled in after them. Their car disappeared around the back of the two storey motel so Dean edged around, shutting off his headlights so they wouldn't give him away. He pulled his car in one of the farthest parking spots before he shut it off. He stepped out and shut the door quietly, stealing closer to the two men who were making their way to the row of doors. Anger rose in them as they started laughing. They had killed them, destroyed their plans and hopes and now they were _laughing_? Unconsciously, Dean's right hand drifted back, gripping the reassuring handle of his handgun before he reigned in his anger. They would get what was coming to them, slowly. Dying fast by the bite of a bullet was too good for them.

He crept behind the row of vehicles as the men -still chuckling- made their way to their door. Roy pulled out a key and slotted it into the lock on door 128. Roy pushed open the door and looked back and Dean froze, worried that he would be seen. He needn't have worried because the dark hid him from sight. He got a brief glimpse of a light room and two beds with generic duvets before the door was shut. Dean waited for a moment before he walked through the bushes back to his car. There was a slight bounce to his step and when he started his car, he turned up the music. He pulled out of the parking lot, feeling satisfied; he knew the location of his prey now.

* * *

Dean opened the door of their motel room and stepped out, pausing for a moment when he saw Sam sitting in the passenger seat. It was finally dark, and tonight was the night. He had followed Roy and Walt back to the same diner -it must be a favourite- and as soon as he was satisfied that they were settled, he drove back to the motel room to collect everything that he would need. Dean was surprised Sam was coming along, he thought he would stay in the room and sulk. He tossed a bag in the backseat before hopping into the driver's seat. Sam must have noticed the strange look that Dean gave him because he mumbled, "Just need to make sure you don't do anything too stupid." Dean snorted and started the car, pulling out of the parking lot and heading to the one that the other hunters were staying at. He was hyped up; adrenaline already starting to flow through his veins. His sadistic side was coming through, he knew, but he couldn't help it. Finally, after all this time, he would be able to exact his revenge. A part of him was slightly scared, because, once he got rid of his anger, what would be left? He drove a little faster and focused on the elation he was feeling. He would deal with that bridge when he crossed it.

As Dean pulled into the parking lot, he was glad that Walt and Roy's room was on the backside of the hotel; it was one of the more out of the way rooms and Dean was thankful. It would make his job so much easier. He parked a few spots over, next to a dark coloured SUV so that when the hunters pulled in after dinner, they wouldn't be able to see his car. Dean got out and strolled around, casually looking for any security cameras. It must be his lucky day, because the only camera was to the far right and it wasn't pointing in the right direction; it was pointing at the entrance to the back side of the motel. There were bushes at the edge of the parking lot; maybe he could hide there? He could also hide behind parked cars. Sam finally got out of the Impala while Dean was studying his surroundings, trying to work out how his kidnapping scene would play out. Sam was still looking unhappy, but he walked toward Dean.

"I'm going for a walk." Sam grumbled.

Dean only shrugged, but mentally he was kind of disappointed. He'd harbored the fantasy that Sam would actually help him, but it seemed like that wasn't going to happen. It seemed like a terrible time to wander off; what if he had to leave in a hurry? He couldn't wait around for Sam wander back. He didn't say anything but watched Sam's retreating back turn the corner. Dean focused back on his task; he wouldn't hide in the bushes because they would make too much noise. He settled for hiding behind a small white car almost right in front of their motel door. He crouched down and waited, his almost insane glee holding off boredom and muscle soreness.

Almost fifteen minutes and multiple times of shifting and stretching later, a car pulled in, its headlights briefly casting a Dean shaped shadow before it slotted into the parking stall. A door opened and Dean could hear men talking; men that sounded like Walt and Roy. He couldn't stop the small smirk that tugged at the edge of his lips. Two doors slammed and footsteps began their journey to the door. Dean's heart was beating wildly in his chest, and his adrenaline was pumping. Everything seemed super loud and almost had a dream-like quality to it. He slowly rose from his crouch and peeked over the edge of the white car. They were both almost at the door now, their backs toward him and still talking. Dean stealthily made his way out from behind the protection of the car, feeling exposed as he crossed the open area after them. The light was also on his side, as it cast his shadow behind him; they wouldn't get any warning. He quietly drew his gun, shifting his grip so that he would club them with the butt of the handgun. He made sure his footsteps didn't make any noise as he stalked closer. He felt like a panther, stalking his prey. He bet all predators felt this wonderful sense of freedom and power as he closed in. Roy was digging in his pocket and fishing the key out, turning it the right way to fit into the lock when Dean struck, silently and quickly.

He brought his gun up and smashing down upon Walt's temple in one smooth motion, finding great satisfaction at the feeling of a solid hit. His body crumpled to the ground, the noise of the dead weight hitting the ground alerted Roy, but Dean was already in motion. With only time enough to get out one, "Walt?" and turn half way around, Dean was surging up from behind Roy and pulling the same trick. Roy tumbled to the ground limply, smacking the ground hard. Dean was breathing harder than usual, but as he stood over the two prone bodies under him, he had the urge to laugh. That was surprisingly easy. All this build up of the chase and that was it? He savored the feeling of absolute power and glee he felt, settling for a shit eating grin. He quickly tucked his gun back into the waist band of his jeans before he knelt down and grabbed Walt's arms, heaving him upward. Dean grunted as he hauled around 150 pounds of dead weight over to his car. His arms were straining, muscles standing out, but he grit his teeth and kept moving. Suddenly, Sam came flying around the corner, sprinting as fast as he could.

"Dean! Someone's coming!" He shouted, "Hurry up!"

"Shit!" Dean cursed.

He shifted, getting a better grip and threw himself forward, done trying to be gentle. Sam skidded to a halt beside Roy and hoisted him up, panting and straining to hurry. Dean leaned Walt's body up against the side of his car while he quickly opened the back door. He pushed and tossed the limp body in, letting gravity do most of the work. Sam joined him, practically shoving the body into his arms.

"Sam! Get the key! Out of the door!" Dean ordered as he had a hard time getting the body in the Impala. Sam obeyed, dashing across the parking lot to grab the keys that Roy had left in the lock, before he was racing back. Dean slammed the back door and ran around the car, wrenching it open and falling into the driver's seat. Sam had just opened the door and slid in when headlights appeared around the corner, sliding closer. Dean started the car and slowly pulled out the spot and drove by. He was still panting and the feeling of satisfaction and joy still hadn't left him. As they exited the parking lot, Dean let out a short laugh; luck was on his side for once.

"How did you know someone was coming?" Dean asked finally, after they were on their way, speeding for the abandoned farm house.

"I was walking by the office when I saw two people booking in for the night. I just had one of those sinking feelings." Sam said, still slightly out of breath from his sprint.

Dean nodded and started humming, smiling the whole way to the house.

* * *

Walt woke up first, which Dean expected, since he had been knocked out first. It was dark in the abandoned house, only a few flashlight-lamps to light the large room. A few candles were on the mantle to add a more primitive feeling, and Dean liked the flickering light they added. He really should have had more candles; it seemed more ominous. Dean was standing the in the shadows of a doorway, with Sam behind him. Sam hadn't said anything the whole time he had been setting up, which was unexpected. He thought Sam would have bitched the whole time, but he didn't utter a single word, going so far as to even help him carry in the unconscious men. Dean was bouncing on his feet, eager to start already. He couldn't deny the thrill of smug satisfaction and amusement at Walt turning around and tugging at the ropes binding him to the chair. There was no way he was getting out of them; they were professionals at tying ropes. He watched as Walt twisted around, trying to see if there was anything in the room. The corners of the room and the doorways were shrouded in darkness and Dean waited patiently, hiding in them. He wanted Roy to be awake as well for the little show.

Dean turned to look at Sam's face. His brows were drawn, shadowing his hazel eyes even more. His mouth was slightly down-turned and his eyes had a far-away look to them. He must be thinking. Dean looked back at Walt just in time to see him notice the side table full of weapons. He had to choke back laughter at the terror clearly written on his face.

"Roy!" Walt hissed, trying to be quiet and still get his friend's attention. "Roy!"

Dean noticed a slight fluttering of eyelids and smirked; he was waking up. Walt was still twisting, obviously looking for the hidden knives he had hidden all over his body. Dean had already confiscated them and set them down by the window. Roy's eyes blinked open and he struggled to focus his eyes. He started tugging at his bonds almost immediately. A hissed, 'Roy,' caused him to turn his head to look at his friend in a similar situation.

"Where are we?" Roy hissed at Walt, confusion and concern clearly colouring his tone.

"No clue. Do you know how we got here?" Walt asked, before interrupting Roy as he began to speak, "On a more urgent note, do you have anything sharp on you?"

"Well, I have knifes tucked into my boots, and some on my belt..." Roy trailed off, his gaze finding the small pile of weapons by the window. "Never mind," he said with a sinking feeling, recognizing one of his knives in the mound. Walt followed his gaze before cursing, struggling harder. Dean slowly pulled the silver knife out of his pocket, ready to start the show. He quietly strode out from the shadowed doorway, a huge smile dominating his face.

"Hello, boys," he said quietly, moving around to get in front of them. They both blanched and their eyes widened exponentially, irises drowning in white. Their jaws were agape and they opened and closed like fish before they could even stutter out any sounds. Dean watched Sam stride from the dark as well, scowling though. The two hunters' eyes flicked between the two, minds obviously working hard to comprehend.

"But we- You were- I saw-" Roy stuttered out.

"How? I felt your pulse! You were-" Walt joined in, looking more terrified than Roy.

"Now, now. Before you think that we're not the real Winchesters, we'll give you a little show." Dean said with obvious glee. Dean knew better than to try to drag Sam into this. He had made his appearance as promised, but now he was sitting on the window ledge, sullenly watching. He raised his silver knife and carefully brought it down upon his bare forearm, a small red line of blood forming before it began to trickle down. He carefully wiped the blade before he slid it back into its sheath and returned it to his pocket. Next he swept out the flask of holy water, dumping a few drops on his already exposed arm. As each test was passed, they were looking more terrified, getting more pale, if it was possible. He recapped it before suddenly moving forward, slamming his hands down on Walt's chair, taking both of them by surprise.

"Real enough for ya'?!" Dean snarled in Walt's face, deadly serious. He paused for a moment, before he pushed up and started to pace in front of them. "I told you I would come back, but you didn't listen did you?" Dean sneered, "Well that means more fun for me I suppose." Smiling again, Dean turned to face them. He heart was pounding and a thrill was constantly running through his veins. He bounced slightly on his feet again, and the rage once more surfaced. They killed Sammy. They killed him. They would pay oh so dearly. He had to fight back a small snicker at their terrified faces; he half expected the hunters to piss themselves.

"So now that you got us, what are you planning to do?" Walt said carefully and slowly, trying to gauge Dean's mood, and not liking the smiles and eagerness he could detect.

"What am I going to do?" Dean repeated, completely serious now. "I guess I'll have to show you."

He turned around and walked toward where Sam was watching, aiming for the weapons on the side table. He paused, studying his choices. He did have a few guns on there, dimly glinting in the candle light, but that would be too quick. He settled on a plain Bowie knife. He picked it up and hefted it before turning around. Roy gasped and started pleading, Walt joining in soon afterwards.

"Please! We're hunters! We didn't know! Surely this is all a big misunderstanding? We used to hunt together!"

"Come on Dean, you're a reasonable man. You don't want to do this. We're sorry! We truly are! Can we talk this out? We can offer you things, many things. Money? How about five grand? You don't want to do this."

Dean couldn't hold in his laugh this time, cutting short their pleading.

"Oh, I really _do_ want to do this." Dean said in a smug way, " you don't have anything to offer me. I don't want money. You took the only thing that mattered to me, so now it's time to repay the favour." His tone was cold and flat, and he advanced on the two, ignoring their begs of 'please' and 'we'll do anything.' Elation soared through his body and he felt light and free for the first time in a long while. His prey were captive; his to play with. Having absolute power like this was fantastic; he was in the best mood since this whole thing started. He approached Walt first, since he had been the leader of this murder. He stopped once he was directly in front of him before he tossed his knife up and caught it in his left hand. Walt's eyes followed the blade and didn't notice the right hook that Dean smashed into his face. It was satisfyingly solid and totally worth the little amount of pain to his knuckles. Walt's head whipped to the side on impact and a quiet grunt could be heard. The chair rocked back on two legs almost tipping back, but at the last moment falling forward to clatter on all fours. He was gasping, leaning forward slightly; his cheek were Dean had hit him was bright red. Dean tucked the Bowie knife into his belt before leaning forward, hissing, "Did you enjoy killing us? Not even letting us explain everything to you? You didn't even know the fucking situation!" Dean roared the last part before punching Walt again in the face. He launched forward, his anger being appeased in raining blows on Walt: face, stomach, stomach, face.

Once he was done, Walt was gasping, almost doubled over now. His lip had split and blood was slowly dribbling down, to be joined by crimson from his nose. Already large bruises were beginning to form on his cheek and around his eyes and on his jaw line. Dean stalked over to Roy, who at his approach started pleading.

"Please Dean! I didn't wa-"

"Shut up. You went along with it. That means you're just as guilty as Walt."

Dean's voice was once again flat and commanding. The first blow didn't have that much of an element of surprise, but it still hurt, making the chair rock back. Dean launched into more punches, aiming to bruise and hurt. Finally, he drew back, breathing heavier than usual. Roy was hunched to the side, his head dipped as though to hide from the blows. Blood was slowly seeping from his brow from Dean's ring; it must have cut him. Adrenaline was pumping through Dean, so he didn't even notice his scraped knuckles. He pulled the knife from his pocket, admiring its large size before he said, "On to the real show."

He stalked toward Walt, shifting the blade in his hands as he approached. He slowly traced his blade along Walt's arm, pressing hard enough to cut through the jacket he was wearing. Seeing numerous winces, Dean knew he must have cut the skin below as well.

"Dean please! Don't do this!" Walt panted out, shaking slightly now.

Dean just smiled, studying his handy work, he looked at his knife, noting the blood on the edge. He trailed the edge of the blade teasingly along Walt's throat, watching him swallow and hearing his breath hitch. He smirked, and slowly started pushing a little harder. A small trickle of blood ran down Walt's neck as he took small, shallow breaths, trying to lean away from the knife as much as possible.

"Dean." Sam startled him, speaking for the first time since he started. Dean drew back and looked at his brother over his shoulder. Sam had stood up, the faint light highlighting his jaw line and brow. "Stop. I don't think you should kill them." He spoke quietly and calmly, his deep, familiar voice almost seeming discordant to Dean in his blissful anger.

"Sam. We talked about this." Dean said, his jaw clenched as he glared at Sam. "I can't let them walk away from killing you!" Dean ended shouting.

"Dean I don't care! Killing them won't make up for anything! I died. So what? I came back!"

"That's not the point! They hurt you, Sammy! I can't just forget that!"

"Please. People have hurt you and I haven't gone berserk!"

"It's different! I'm the older brother! I'm supposed to protect you!"

"Well you can't! Just let it go Dean!" Dean flinched slightly at Sam's yell. It was true, he couldn't protect Sam and that aggravated him and only made the point hit home that much harder, that he was a terrible big brother.

"Give me one good reason why I shouldn't kill them!" Dean shouted, pointing his knife back at Walt.

Sam paused, walking forward. All of a sudden, his angry demeanor was gone and his eyes were soft. He strode forward to stand in front of Dean. "Dean," Sam said softly. Dean thought Sam was going to kiss him, and he was about to step back, remembering their audience, when Sam stopped.

"Please? For me? It would mean so much more to me if you let them live." Sam maintained eye contact and pulled his classic puppy dog eyes. Dean stared at him for a moment before swinging around.

"God damn it Sammy!" He roared and he punched Walt as hard as he could in the face. Walt grunted in pain as the chair tipped over, clattering loudly on the floor. Dean stood panting, looking down at the man in the chair, his bruised, bloodied face. Damn, he wanted to kill him so bad, to make him pay for everything, but he couldn't, not after Sam had looked at him like that. Not after his voice had gotten 'that' soft tone. If the other two hunters hadn't been watching, he was sure Sam would have kissed him, hell, Sam might have anyways. After a moment, he roughly heaved Walt upright before leaning in to hiss in his ear.

"You are so goddamn lucky my brother is here. If you ever, ever-" Dean's voice was dangerous and low, rage dripping off his words, "try and kill us again, I will come after you, and torture you until you're begging for death. If I even _hear _of you even _thinking _about coming after us, I will kill you same goes for sending other people after us. Alright?" Dean's eyes danced dangerously, flashing glimpses of darkness in their depths. "You better tell any other hunters to not fuck with us, got it? Just know, that if Sam wasn't here, I would skin you alive; you learn a lot of torture techniques in Hell." Dean glared at Walt, his voice deadly calm as Walt sat wide-eyed at what he had heard. "Got it?" Dean snarled. Mutely, Walt nodded, not able to find his voice. Dean stepped back, and addressed both his captives, "I will not hesitate to kill you if you come after us again. Someone wants us alive, and you don't want to piss them off. Count yourselves lucky to be leaving here alive." Dean snarled, positively downright pissed. The anger inside him screamed to kill them, to take revenge and relish in their shrieks, but the look on Sam's face stopped it. He stalked toward Roy first, figuring he was less guilty than Walt and slashed through the rope binding his arms, not being particularly careful. A small twinge of satisfaction ran through him when he saw the man wince. He narrowed his eyes when he turned to Walt, and the other hunter swallowed nervously, not liking the rage that swirled in Dean's eyes. While Dean freed Walt, he purposely 'accidentally' slashed the older man before stepped back to watch him struggle with the ropes binding his legs. Roy was standing first, looking very uncertain, as if he wanted to bolt right away but he knew he should wait for his friend. Dean threw their motel key at him, saying, "Here" in a flat tone.

Once Walt was free, they both stood far from Dean, keeping the chairs between them, half turned to the door, as if waiting for something to release them. Dean roared "get out of here" in his most demanding tone, some of his anger and frustration of freeing his prey slipping through. The hunters ran from the room, escaping out the old door and across the creaking porch in record time. It would be a long walk back to town for them.

As soon as they were out of sight, Dean started pacing; he had all this pent up energy, and he didn't know what else to do. Sam caught his arm and stopped him, his eyes softening when they locked gazes.

"Thanks," Sam murmured softly as his other hand cupped Dean's jaw. He leaned in and gently kissed his older brother, pressing together warm lips in a soft kiss. Sam pulled back slightly and leaned his forehead against Dean's before he whispered, "It really means a lot to me." He bumped his nose against Dean's and stared meaningfully at Dean. Dean sighed and drew back, ruining the moment and running his hand through his hair, ruffling it, before he said tiredly, "We'd better clean up and return to our motel."

Dean turned away, missing the sad look that crossed his brother's face as he started collecting the knives and guns and putting them in a green duffle bag he had brought just for this purpose. He struggled to reign in his anger and frustration. Damn Sam for having for much control over him. He had finally gotten what he wanted only to have to release them. He glanced at the pile of knives he had collected from the other hunters before he said with slight amusement, "I guess we got a couple free knives." Sam smiled slightly and helped Dean gather the weapons. While they worked, Sam couldn't help and steal glances at his brother when he wasn't looking. The candle light cast his face in stark contrast, highlighting his pronounced cheekbones and full lips. Sam flushed slightly, thinking of what those lips could do, before he settled for studying the deep green of Dean's eyes. Emotions swirled in them, too many to count and decipher.

The elder brother stood up and started blowing out the candles, liking the smell of the smoke and the way the it curled in mesmerizing patterns. He decided to leave them; they didn't need them and would probably never use them again. In the new shade of darkness, Dean watched Sam get to his feet, zipping the duffle shut and carefully slinging it over his shoulder. Dean picked up their flashlights and trudged through the doorway, feeling weary all of a sudden. Now that he didn't have anger and revenge to focus on, what would cover the hole in his chest? Could it possibly be filled again? Sam followed, and as they left the abandoned house, the tense silence seemed to grow, full of words, said and unsaid; desire and barriers as strong and tall as a castle, with no way to start break them down.

* * *

**Chapter three will come out much faster I promise! I have half of it written already. **


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